During my pre-shower ritual last night (which involves me sitting on my bathroom counter and doing deep, close inspection of my pores and a status check on my eyebrows) I encountered a fly of such gigantic proportions that I feared I might sustain a concussion should it dive bomb my frontal lobe. It must have flown in during the afternoon (when I keep the sliding glass doors open so that Kylie can come and go as she pleases) and enjoyed a siesta until I disturbed its resting place by turning on the lightbulb it had been calling home. It flew furiously around my head and I made every effort to avoid coming into contact with it, shaking my leg violently when it landed there not once, but twice. The thing was so large it almost pulled my pants right off. YES I WAS WEARING PANTS. I DO THAT SOMETIMES.
Marc came up after I had concluded my shower, ready for his and I retreated to the other side of the house, not mentioning the fly because, knowing his hatred for them, I was sure its demise was imminent.
From my perch in the guestroom, I had a direct view into our bedroom and what ensued was Marc making several appearances in the doorway, jumping first this way and then that, leaping at the fly, simultaneously flapping at it furiously with a shirt, "DIE FUCKER!" floating gently down the hallway. He prevailed, coming in somewhat breathless saying "I JUST KILLED THREE HUGE FLIES!" with enough gusto that one might think he was gunning for an award.
Reason #1,569 to get married. Someone else will kill the beasties.
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2 comments:
good lord....now I'm a sitcom.
Hah! Things work the opposite way in my house. It's the SINGLE person (a.k.a. ME) that has to take on any intruders of the insect or arachnid persuasion. For example, I was the one who had to dispose of the four-inch grasshopper that made it's way into the house yesterday...
http://i26.photobucket.com/albums/c131/batgirlforever/grasshopper.jpg
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